Returning the Favour
by HBfan26
Summary: "In many ways John Watson was used to danger. He'd always faced it in one form or another. " John's in trouble, again... Rated K as their is some language. Reviews always welcome.


**Not ready yet**

The first thing he noticed was the darkness. There was nothing but darkness all around and for a few moments he could see nothing at all. Slowly as his eyes adjusted to the inky blackness and he could see stone walls, but no door, not even a window. He was lying on a very cold and what seemed to be damp floor. He tried to sit up but the blinding pain that assaulted him stopped him in his tracks. For a moment the room started to spin and he thought he was going to throw up. He lay back again gasping for breath, trying to take in huge gulps of air to quell the nausea. Eventually the room came back into focus.

John Watson's first coherent thought was "Brilliant. Bloody brilliant"

Alone, definitely in pain, probably in danger. Again.

Bloody Brilliant.

Gingerly he felt around the back of his head, wincing has his hands passed over what seemed to be a large gash. Thankfully it was tacky and seemed to have stopped bleeding. Flexing his toes, then his ankles he moved his legs, then his arms, and then very slowly pushed himself onto all fours.

Good. At least he wasn't lying down anymore. Maybe he'd just stay in this position for a little while, just until the ground stopped moving. He also realised that it wasn't just his head that was hurting, his nose seemed sore, and he didn't think he could see very clearly out of one eye. Also he had a vague sensation of a pain in his ribs if he tried to breathe too deeply.

Great, fabulous, absolutely frigging wonderful. Concussion, possible broken ribs, almost certainly a broken nose. What a wonderful way to start a … wait… what day was it?

He didn't know where he was, and he wasn't sure how long he'd been there. What he also knew, as surely as the sun rose up into the sky every morning was that this was something to do with Sherlock (bloody sociopathic bastard) Holmes. Clearly his time in Afghanistan had warped John's mind, his PTSD was still there, he wasn't functioning like a normal person, wasn't fully back to being himself. No normal person would go from concussion to concussion as if it were a weekly activity, like shopping for groceries.

But he did. John Watson willingly jumped into harms way because that was what he did, and because apparently he craved it. Or so the other (bloody insufferable ponce) Mycroft thought and clearly Sherlock was in agreement. Or maybe Sherlock didn't care.

No, that wasn't fair. Concussion or no John knew Sherlock did care, or at least some tiny part of his brain that was vaguely human cared. Or at least cared for his friend.

Well. There was always hope.

Slowly John shifted himself carefully until he was sitting down, his back to the wall and then tried to think.

Saturday night, they'd been in Angelo's. Sherlock was on the tail end of a case and a week of surviving on tea and nicotine patches. The crash was going to come soon, John had known that. The case was solved, Mycroft had condescended to texting his brothers his thanks ("_Her Majesty send's her thanks, next time please try not to call members of the royal family blithering idiots")_, and Sherlock needed to eat before he fell asleep.

John had dragged him to Angelo's ordering all the things he knew Sherlock liked best, annoying him by deliberately mispronouncing the Italian words on the menu and trying to convince him that American Idol was probably one of the most intelligent programmes on television today. Sherlock had rolled his eyes and started into a 15 minute lecture on "_The puerile stupidity of reality television of all kind and how it could be directly linked to the increase in psychotic episodes amongst middle aged men"_

John had listened and smiled, then Sherlock had berated him for smiling when it clearly made no sense and then realised he'd eaten almost an entire mushroom risotto and half a garlic pizza bread and realised at the same moment what John had done and had thought about sulking but instead had given in, smiled and ordered the bill.

They'd left the restaurant and were walking across the road, laughing about something inane, something only a sociopath and his half mad blogger would find funny. John remembered a car that had seemed to appear from nowhere, someone running towards Sherlock, shouts, a blinding pain, and then nothing,

In many ways John Watson was used to danger. He'd always faced it in one form or another. There was Harry, never violent (never intentionally violent) but always ending up in the wrong neighbourhood with the wrong boy at the wrong time and needing to be rescued. And long before that his Dad, always free and easy with his fists after one too many whiskeys. _"Sometimes John I think I'd be better off dead"_

It was funny, in this of all moments it was his father's voice he should choose to hear. '_Must be the concussion' _he thought.

Slowly John got unsteadily to his feet, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He could see a doorway at the opposite end of the room and made his way to it, slowly. He grasped the handle, more out of hope that anything and was surprised to find it turned in his hand, and ever more surprised to find the door opening. Blinding sunlight flooded the doorway, temporarily blinding John and only intensifying the pain in his head. He couldn't think about it though. An open door meant escape, and escape brought him ever closer to strangling Sherlock (crazy bloody lunatic) Holmes.

He stepped out, walking as quietly as he could, not really seeing anything but bright sunlight. But John Watson was nothing if not determined. He stepped forward, and then suddenly, there was nothing underneath his feet, nothing but air, nothing but his body falling, falling, falling.

He never heard the splash. He did however feel the cold. The absolute all encompassing mind numbing freezing cold water all around him, in his mouth, his nose, and his lungs. It took his breath away, took his energy away. John Watson wasn't ready to die but he didn't think he could fight this, didn't know if he had the strength to fight this too.

The last time this had happened he'd thought '_Please God let me live' _Now all he could think was '_Well this is a bloody awful way to die' _

Harry had once told him he had a death wish. "What's wrong with a normal life Johnny, what's wrong with marriage and 2.4 kids and a nice family practise somewhere down the country? You could have all that, you know you could." John had just smiled as he wiped the last traces of sweat and vomit from his only sister's face. "Do we seem like the kind of family that can do normal sis?" And she had laughed too, laughed and then vomited yet again, all over her brother's shoes.

'_Sorry Harry'. _John was sold cold, Cold and tired, and he knew he couldn't fight any longer.

Then suddenly he didn't have too. A dark swirl of cloth close to his face. An arm around him gripping him tightly pulling him up and up until he felt his head break clear of the water.

Then there were people everywhere, pulling him up, up, up until he was lying on something cold thankfully solid, lying there shivering, coughing, breathing, gulping _oh thank you thank you lord_ lungfuls of freezing cold air.

Then his view was blocked by a wet coat, curly wet hair, and then a familiar face, dark worried eyes, a face close to his.

"Are you alright?"

Sherlock (bloody stupid hero) Holmes.

"Id… id… idiot". John was so cold he couldn't stop his teeth chattering.

"What?" Sherlock's eyes narrowing, although his expression seemed more _worried?_ than angry

"I sa… said….you're an idiot"

"Oh yes, why's that?" Sherlock's eyes relaxed, the corners of his mouth creasing into a soft smile.

"O…o… only an idiot would dive into the Thames in a bloody g..g..great coat."

And then Sherlock was smiling, that rare full smile that he seemed to reserve only for his friend.

"I'll be sure you send you a bill for the dry cleaning."

There were paramedics, blankets, people, voices all around him. John knew he was safe and with the knowledge and relief, he could feel tiredness pulling him in. Just before he went under he felt a hand, _trembling?_ grip his.

"This doesn't make us even John, not yet, but I'll keep trying"

'_Thank you, Sherlock bloody Holmes' _was John's last thought before darkness finally took over.

'


End file.
